This conversation opens the third interview in the series 'Defining Moments: The First Start or the Turning Moment'. Syan Hu, a trilingual visual artist based in London, delves into themes of impermanence and ecological decay. His artistic journey began with a childhood fracture, which sparked an exploration of vulnerability that now informs his practice. Currently pursuing an MA in Photography at the Royal College of Art, Hu seamlessly integrates photography, sound, and bio-materials. Influenced by the Japanese concept of mono no aware and Junichiro Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows, Hu's work embraces the beauty in erosion and stillness, where time is marked by organic transformation. The project Kara殻 exemplifies this philosophy, employing Mongolian khöömii to articulate the unspeakable, thereby creating a spatial ecology where image, matter, and sound coexist harmoniously. Embracing unpredictability, Hu's style values sensitivity over clarity, drawing inspiration from thinkers like Jane Bennett and artists like Masao Yamamoto. As he ventures into new artistic territories, Hu is captivated by materials that decay and resist control, aiming to create hybrid installations that fuse bio-material growth with photographic time. This interview has been carefully edited to preserve Syan Hu's thoughtful voice and authentic perspective. Now, in the artist's own words.
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Q. Thank you very much for taking the time to speak with us. I'd love to begin by hearing about you and your practice. How would you introduce yourself as an artist, and what work are you currently engaged with?
A. I am a trilingual visual artist (Chinese, English, Japanese) based in London, currently pursuing an MA in Photography at the Royal College of Art. My practice merges photography, sound, and bio-material experimentation to explore themes of impermanence, ecological decay, and post-human transformation.
Influenced by mono no aware and Junichiro Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows, I work with organic remnants—dissected reptiles, crustacean shells, mycelium, fungal bloom—materials that carry traces of rupture, life, and silent regeneration. My images embrace erosion and stillness, where time is measured not by events but by organic transformation.
Conceptually, my work aligns with Jane Bennett’s theory of vibrant matter and New Materialism. I treat materials as agential entities in slow dialogue with the viewer, inviting resonance over interpretation.
My recent project Kara殻 expands this into a multisensory installation. Using Mongolian khöömii (throat singing) as low-frequency vibration, I give voice to what is unspeakable—the shell, the scar, the fungal residue—constructing a spatial ecology where image, matter, and sound co-exist in quiet cycles of dissolution and return.
Kara #7
Q. Could you share what first set you on the path as an artist, or a decisive moment that drew you deeply into your practice? If an image or sensation returns when you think of that time, we would be grateful to hear about it.
A. If I were to trace the origin of my path as an artist, it would lead back to a fracture I suffered at the age of four. A severe break in my left arm left it permanently bent—a visible scar that became a quiet source of shame and disconnection throughout my childhood. That rupture marked the beginning of an uneasy relationship with my body. Over time, I began to project myself onto exoskeletal creatures—crabs, lobsters—beings capable of regenerating lost limbs.
At first, I was drawn to their form—the fragile hardness of the shell. But I later realized that I was using these organisms to articulate what I couldn’t say, wrapping my own vulnerability in borrowed structure. That impulse eventually became the foundation of my Kara殻 and Mycelial Dialogues菌絲對話 series.
The turning point wasn’t dramatic, but rather a quiet shift. I remember watching an image emerge in the darkroom—one of a crustacean specimen—and feeling an unexpected sense of stillness. It was as if something unspeakable had found a place to land. In that moment, I understood that art wasn’t a choice, but something I had to do in order to translate what lives beneath the skin.
Q. Have you ever experienced a slump or faced significant difficulties in your creative process? If so, how did you navigate and overcome that period? We are also curious to know if this process led to discovering your unique style or artistic direction, and whether you noticed any changes in your environment or in the reactions of those around you.
A. Yes, I experienced a creative slump during the early stages of working with biological materials. I was trying to cultivate perfect mushroom forms, but mold kept appearing instead. At first, I saw this as failure. But over time, I began to observe the mold as something alive, persistent, and strangely beautiful. This shift in perception changed the way I work: I now accept unpredictability as part of the process. My style became quieter, more open to decay, and less about control. Those around me began to see the work as more intimate—more alive.
Q. The fears or difficulties encountered on one's journey are often deeply connected to the birth of a particular artwork. Could you tell us about a piece that was especially challenging to create, but through which you gained a significant realization or felt a great sense of reward? Please share the experience behind that work and what that moment means to you now.
A. One of the most difficult pieces I’ve made was part of Mycelial Dialogues菌絲對話. I attempted to cultivate mycelium on a crab shell under sterile conditions, but unexpected mold took over. Initially, I was frustrated—it felt like the failure of control. But watching how the mold bloomed, quietly and insistently, I began to understand decay not as collapse, but as transformation. That moment shifted my entire approach. It taught me that failure can hold its own form of authorship—and that sometimes, the material knows more than I do.
Q. It seems that such an experience would have been a significant 'turning point' for you. Following that turning point, how did your artistic world and methodology change? Could you please elaborate on any specific ways your work has evolved since then?
A. That moment taught me to stop forcing the material into fixed forms. Since then, I’ve shifted from controlling outcomes to co-existing with them. My process became slower, more open to unpredictability and time-based change. I began treating decay not as failure but as a collaborator—something that shapes the work alongside me. This shift also expanded my medium, drawing me toward sound, space, and installation as extensions of living material.
Q. Following that turning point, did the core message or values you wish to convey through your art also change? If so, what do you consider the most significant shift?
A. Yes. Before that shift, my work was focused on reconstruction and visual coherence. Afterward, I became more interested in what cannot be neatly repaired: the residue, the slowness, the minor gestures of survival. The most significant change is that I no longer seek to resolve the wound, but to stay with it—to witness how it breathes, leaks, transforms. My work now values sensitivity over clarity, presence over resolution. As Jane Bennett writes, “the vitality of matter” calls for attentiveness, not domination. I find this echoed in Tanizaki’s quiet reverence for imperfection—where shadow, tarnish, and incompletion are not flaws, but forms of grace.
Q. What is the significance of "that moment" which remains most precious to you today, and how does it continue to affect your future work and life? If you were to capture that moment in a single word or sentence, what would it be?
A. During that moment, the quiet collapse of control, when the mold took over the work—remains precious because it taught me to listen. It shifted my relationship to making: from commanding form to accompanying process, from anticipating to attending. It still reminds me to move slowly, to notice what is growing on the edges, and to allow decay to speak. If using a single word, it would be yielding.
Q. Could you tell us about any individuals, artworks, or environments that have been influential in shaping your identity as an artist? We are also interested in learning how these influences are woven into your current work.
A. My work has been deeply shaped by Junichiro Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows, Jane Bennett’s Vibrant Matter, and the quiet photographs of Masao Yamamoto. From Tanizaki, I learned to find beauty in erosion, residue, and incomplete light. From Bennett, I came to understand matter as active, expressive, and in dialogue with us. From Yamamoto, I learned how silence and scale can alter the weight of an image. These voices continue to guide my work—not as references, but as atmospheres that shape how I sense, frame, and let the work emerge.
Q. What role does the audience play in your creative process? How does the act of sharing your work with others impact its meaning for you?
A. The quiet, almost meditative images of Masao Yamamoto, especially in Bonsai and Sasanami, have shaped the way I observe the world: slowly, attentively, microscopically. Sasanami’s collaboration with a sound artist deeply inspired the sound component of my Kara project. Similarly, the work of Mari Katayama, a Japanese artist who engages with her own body, scars, and prosthetics through photography, sculpture, and performance, made me reflect on how personal trauma can be externalized through matter. Her courage and sensitivity showed me how the body can become both subject and medium. These artists didn’t just influence my style—they helped me locate the emotional and material language through which my work now speaks.
Q. Building on your past turning points, in what new directions do you hope your artistic world will evolve? What new ideas or uncharted territories are most exciting to you right now?
A. I’m currently drawn to materials that decay, mutate, or resist control—mold, fungus, bone, broken shells. I’m interested in how matter behaves on its own, beyond the artist’s will. I hope to explore more hybrid installations that fuse bio-material growth with photographic time, to ask: what does it mean to collaborate with something that’s alive? At the same time, I want to develop more sonic elements—sound as a form of presence, of memory, or even of warning. My work is shifting from representation toward something more ecological, unpredictable, and alive.
Q. What message would you like to share with your future self, or with someone who is about to embark on their own artistic journey?
A. I think it would be: Don’t rush. Don’t seek to be understood too quickly. Let the work lead us somewhere unfamiliar. Trust the materials, even when they decay. And when things fall apart—observe closely. Something is always growing in the cracks.
Q. Thank you so much for sharing such thoughtful insights with us today. As we conclude our conversation, is there anything else you would like to share that hasn't been covered by these questions? We would be grateful to hear any additional thoughts or reflections you might have.
A. I’ve come to accept that I may never have the right language to fully explain my work—and perhaps that’s the point. Some things are meant to be felt quietly, through texture, breath, and decay. I hope my work speaks there, where words no longer can.
Contact
Artist : Syan Hu
Instagram : @aristurtle527
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